


No Such Roses

by smallhorizons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Activist Castiel, Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Aro-Spec Castiel, Asexual Castiel, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Journalist Castiel, Lonely Castiel, M/M, Masturbation, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Castiel, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Social Issues, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8026207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: Everybody knows that true mates are bullshit. They belong to the realm of romantic comedies and the wistful anecdotes about a friend-of-a-friend who met their true mate while shopping for groceries and was mated the next day and lived happily ever after. At least, that’s what Castiel Milton, social activist journalist, thinks, and he hasn’t seen anything to convince him otherwise. Then he meets Dean Winchester in a disastrous attempt at an interview, and his entire worldview, as well as the mythology surrounding ‘true mates’, is called into question.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookkbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Bookkbaby, who wanted something with DeanCas, ABO, and soulmates. I'd really like to get it done in time for their birthday, and I'm hoping that by posting it online I'll get some pressure from readers to hold me accountable and actually finish writing the damn thing! 
> 
> Because I'm a total Social Justice Paladin™, and because I'm super intrigued by how secondary sex designations (ABO) would affect society at large, social issues and sociology are pretty big components of this fic moving forward. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at osirisjones.tumblr.com!

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
   As any she belied with false compare.

 _Sonnet 130_ , William Shakespeare

 

* * *

 

Everybody knows that true mates are bullshit. They belong to the realm of romantic comedies and the wistful anecdotes about a friend-of-a-friend who met their true mate while shopping for groceries and was mated the next day and lived happily ever after. It’s a Hallmark ploy that prevents people from realizing that what they have is _good_ , that just because there wasn’t an instantaneous connection and a feeling of utter completion, just because they don’t have the bond that true mates are rumored to have, their relationship _isn’t enough_.

Castiel has seen couples divorce because one or the other became convinced their true mate was out there, and they couldn’t stand being mated to the _wrong_ person—no matter that they had been married for over a decade, had children. He’s interviewed the people left behind, alphas and betas and omegas who were stunned into a silent, despairing shock.

 _Even if a true mate really exists for each and every person_ , _which remains questionable considering that fewer than 10% of mated couples are biologically-verified true mates,_ he’d written in his most recent article, the first featured spread he’s written, _there is no excuse for leaving your mate merely because you believe there is someone out there who is made for you. You cannot ignore what and who you have in your life because you are convinced they are not enough. Alphas in particular have been socialized since birth to believe that their desires should always take priority over all others, so it is no surprise that it is primarily omegas and betas who are left behind by an alpha pursuing the ephemeral possibility of their perfect, submissive mate. Love should not be contingent upon biology._

 _Voice_ is one of the west coast’s most popular leftist magazines, and the article was received, for the most part, positively. He’s been forwarded dozens of emails, primarily from omegas, who have been taught since birth that their desires and opinions just don't matter, thanking him for running the article. Telling him, “My partner, a beta, left me because she said she didn’t feel right settling down with me when she knew there was someone better for her out there.” Or, “My alpha left me because while walking down the street one day he swore he smelled someone incredible, and he knew he’d found his ‘true mate’—even though he’d never seen who he’d scented, and we’d just had twins.”

Then the conservatives found the article. Many of the letters read, _How dare you tell others to give up hope of finding their true mate_ , or _The LORD made each of us a half of one whole and it is the LORD’s wish that we find the partner He made for us_ , or, his favorite:

_Who hurt you this way?_

“Listen to this,” Anna says. She clears her throat and reads, “‘The alpha who left your bitchy omega ass had the right idea. Nobody wants an omega who thinks he has the right to tell an alpha what to do.’”

“It’s strange, isn’t it, that they all assume I could only be so passionate about the subject if a partner had left me,” Castiel says, propping his chin up on his hand. He taps his fingers against his cheek. “It couldn’t possibly be that I empathize with the people who are left behind by partners who claimed they loved them, and abhor that the existence of ‘true mates’ is used as an excuse for why alphas leave their partners so often.”

“Omegas and betas do it, too,” Anna says, eyebrows rising. Castiel tries not to flinch. He should’ve known better to say that, when just a few months ago Anna’s long-term girlfriend, a beta, left her because she 'didn't feel right' knowing they weren't true mates.

“I know. But historically and statistically it’s far more common for an alpha to leave their mate than an omega to. It’s nothing to do with biology—alphas aren’t biologically more prone to wanderlust, or adultery, or whatever else people say. It’s everything to do with how our society places _no_ restrictions on alpha entitlement.”

“ _Male_ alpha entitlement,” Anna points out. “My alpha status hasn’t exactly prevented me from being told I’d never make it as a lawyer because it’s a man’s job.”

Castiel sighs. “I know,” he says again. “Men and women experience alpha entitlement differently. But, Anna, you know that you’d be treated differently if you were a beta. Or an omega.” He tries not to let bitterness seep into his tone.

“Oh, Cas,” Anna says, and she gets up from her armchair just to sit at his side on his uncomfortable couch, wrapping him up in her arms. Castiel relaxes into her embrace and inhales deeply, smelling _sister_ and _comfort_ and _home_. “I know. Your first big piece, and you have to deal with all … _this_.”

“I don’t regret writing it,” Castiel says, and it’s the truth. He’d interviewed almost two dozen individuals—mostly omegas, but also a handful of betas and even a few alphas—and he’s proud that he’s amplified their voices through his writing, glad that he had been given the chance to raise awareness of the harmful idea that your true mate is the only person you could truly be happy with.

“I guess they weren’t too far off, though,” Anna muses. When Castiel makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat, she clarifies, “The people who thought you were left. They weren’t entirely wrong. We _were_ left behind.”

Castiel’s hands tighten where they’re lying on his thighs. He shouldn’t still be so upset, he knows that. Their father left when he was five and Anna eight, claiming that he couldn’t pretend to be happy in a family when he knew his true mate was waiting for him. That was twenty-three years ago.

They sit in silence for a little while longer, Anna’s head on Castiel’s shoulder. Her hair tickles at Castiel’s nose. Sitting like this, he realizes she’s wearing perfume—something light and flowery, so subtle he hadn’t been able to pick it out with her sitting across from him.

Castiel pulls away, dislodging Anna from her shoulder. She makes a startled sound, almost tipping forward onto him before catching herself and sitting up straight. “What was that for?” she asks, brows furrowing into a glare.

“You didn’t tell me you were going on a date tonight,” he says, and he tries very hard not to sound accusing, but Anna’s eyes narrow and she frowns at him.

“It’s been three months since Ruby and I broke up,” Anna says. “I’m a grown woman. I can go out and have dinner and invite them over for sex afterwards.”

Castiel winced. “I didn’t need to hear that,” he tells her. Then, a little awkwardly, “You were together for a long time. I just—be careful.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I think you’re my older brother, not my younger,” she says. She stands in one fluid movement, then bends at the waist to press a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “Speaking of dates, I should head home and get changed. Don’t want my date to think I go around in ratty jeans and my brother’s old shirts all the time when I’m not at work.”

“You _do_ go around in ratty jeans and my old shirts all the time when you’re not at work,” Castiel says dryly, and Anna smacks him upside the head.

“Brat,” she says fondly. “Look. Text me if you need emotional support for all this.” She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm, presenting the coffee table, cluttered with dozens of letters. “A hot date isn’t as important as my baby brother.” She makes cooing sounds.

“Get out of my apartment,” Castiel says.

He walks her to the front door and kisses her cheek goodbye. He leans against his doorframe as he watches her disappear down the stairs, going inside only when he can no longer see her head of brilliant red hair.

He walks to the low-slung coffee table, an ancient piece he picked up from a thrift store and refinished over a long, rainy weekend. Its scratched surface is entirely covered with letters. He stoops down to pick up one of the unopened letters and reads it standing up. _This article is a bunch of jealous & spiteful BS_, the letter opens. _Don’t take your shitty romantic experiences as an excuse to look down on everyone who still has hope for finding their true mate. You’re just a sad, lonely omega who feels worthless that he can’t find a mate._

He puts the letter back down. Stares at the table, at the piles of letters. And goes to find his shredder.

He feeds the letters to the shredder one at a time, opening each and scanning the first line to determine if it’s positive or negative. The positive ones, the ones from people thanking him for the article, telling him their stories, he keeps. The negative ones, he shreds.

He’s not worthless.

He’s not worthless, and he’s not ashamed that he’s never had a romantic partner. He’s not ashamed his sexual experience is limited to his hand and the small collection of sex toys that keep him company during his heats. He’s never met anyone who made him feel that spark, an opportunity for something other than friendship. And sex—the thought doesn’t repulse him, but he finds himself uncomfortable whenever he entertains the possibility of touching another person that way, of someone else touching him. He doesn’t _care_ what people think of his preferences—or, lack of preferences. He’s comfortable as he is, twenty-eight, never been kissed, never been on a date.

_You’re just a sad, lonely omega who feels worthless because he can’t find a mate._

The shredder jams.

He’s not sad. He’s not lonely. He has friends. Uriel and Hannah, Balthazar, Missouri. Even Meg, he supposes, counts as a friend, although most of the time he doesn’t particularly like her. Most of them are his coworkers, but he sees Missouri a few times a month for tea and cake, and Uriel was the first friend he made at the company, and Meg has the annoying tendency of barging into his apartment and bullying him into going to a bar with him. He has Anna. He has his cat, Grace. He has the job he’s been working toward since he was an undergrad, a journalist for the most prominent social justice magazine on the west coast. He has himself. That should be enough. It _is_ enough.

He looks around his empty apartment and aches.

He unplugs the shredder and spends the next half hour trying to pick out the wad of paper that’s gotten stuck in its teeth.

 

* * *

 

Castiel gets called to Naomi’s office the next day. He drags his feet as he takes the stairs, shaking his head at the woman holding the elevator door for him. Naomi Enoch, the editor in chief of _Voice_ , is a stern beta who is made of severe lines and detached professionalism. Castiel has never seen her with a single hair out of place or with her pantsuits less than perfectly pressed.

He gets to her office too soon, and he dips his chin in an awkward greeting to Samandriel, Naomi’s secretary, who immediately picks up the phone, presses a button, and says, “Mr. Milton is here, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Of course.” He puts the phone back in its cradle with a decisive click. “Ms. Enoch says to go right in,” he says. Castiel tries to give him a smile.

Castiel raps his knuckles on the door lightly, just to be polite, before opening it wide enough to sidle in.

“Castiel,” Naomi says, and something must be wrong because she sounds pleased. There is a warm smile on her face, little wrinkles around her eyes. “Please, sit.”

Castiel lowers himself into one of the straight-backed chairs across Naomi’s desk, all sleek lines and metal. Her office is modern, sparse, sharply angled. The chair is extremely uncomfortable. He resists the urge to shift his weight, just barely. “Good morning,” he says.

She’s still smiling. It’s unnerving. “And to you, as well. Now. Right to business.” She stands up.

Castiel swallows and takes a shuddering breath.

“I cannot begin to tell you how impressed I was with your article,” she says. She taps her finger twice on her desk, and Castiel notices for the first time that she has a copy of _Voice_ open to his spread. “Decisive, inspired, and passionate. I’m very glad you persuaded me to give you a full eight pages for this. I can’t imagine cutting a single word.”

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it. His tongue is too big. “Ms. Enoch,” he says, then falters. His cheeks are hot. “I—thank you.”

Naomi smiles at him, perhaps a little amused. “We’ve received a tremendous amount of mail over this, as you well know,” she says, and Castiel thinks, _You are a sad and lonely omega who feels worthless_ —“And I would like to take this opportunity for you to write a follow-up.”

“Uh,” Castiel says intelligently.

“By writing to us, our readers agree to have their letters published under a degree of anonymity,” Naomi is saying. “I’d like for you to go through the emails you’ve received, and pick, say, ten—split evenly between positive and negative, I’d say. We will email them back and set up an interview by phone. You’ll present the original emails and the results of those interviews in your next article.” She braces her palms against her desk and leans forward. “Do you accept?”

Castiel stands slowly, feeling oddly calm. “Yes,” he says. “Of course, Ms. Enoch. I’ll do everything in my power to make this an article worthy of being in your magazine.”

She beams at him. They shake on it.

On his way back to his desk, Castiel has to dart into a bathroom and sit on a toilet with his head between his knees, trying to get his breathing under control. The world is spinning and the edges of his vision are dark.

He digs his phone out of his pants’ pocket and calls Anna. His hands are shaking.

Anna picks up after four rings, yawning into the phone. “Cas?” she asks. “What’s up?”

“Naomi wants me to do a follow-up article,” he blurts.

There’s the rustling of fabric, a faint groan. “Castiel, that’s wonderful,” Anna says, sounding wide awake. “That’s—that’s fantastic. Cas, this is what you’ve wanted forever, isn’t it?”

“It was enough to get just one featured article,” Cas says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “I wasn’t expecting to get another.”

“We need to celebrate,” Anna says firmly. Fabric rustles again and Cas hears a woman saying groggily, “Who are you talking to?” Anna takes the phone away from her mouth, but Cas can still hear her whispering, “It’s my brother, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Are you in bed with someone?” Cas asks, incredulous. “Wasn’t this—wasn’t last night your first date?” And then, more suspiciously, “You’re supposed to be at _work_.”

“Oh, shut up, Castiel,” Anna sighs. “I took the morning off—I don’t have any active cases right now, anyway, and paperwork is what interns are for. Look. I’ll call you back later, okay? I’ll come over tonight and we’ll have dinner and drink champagne. And _calm down_ , Castiel. I can hear you freaking out over the phone. You deserve this.”

“Right,” Castiel says. He takes a deep breath. “Right. Thank you. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll bring dessert,” Anna promises.

 

* * *

 

Castiel spends the rest of the day feeling like he’s far too large for his skin. It takes him an hour to realize that he needs to start looking through emails now if he possibly wants to get the article finished by the time next issue is sent out. His article came out a little over a week ago; he has two and a half weeks, at the most, to wrangle good interviews out of ten participants—half of whom, he reminds himself, are likely to be belligerent.

Castiel opens his laptop and clicks through to the email folder where all the messages related to his article have been sent. There are almost three thousand.

He gets up and brews a very strong cup of coffee. As he waits, he checks the time. Ten-thirty. If he gets through one email every other minute, that’s thirty emails an hour. If he leaves by five, and takes a half-hour break for lunch, he can read 180 emails.

Castiel stares bleakly at the coffee machine until he hears it beep. Then he takes a deep breath, pours his coffee, and gets to work.

As it turns out, he underestimated how quickly he could get through the emails. Most of them are short, only a few sentences long. Castiel reasons to himself that if someone didn’t bother to write more than that, they must not have very much to say on the topic and wouldn’t make a good interview candidate. He can’t help but take in the first lines of each short email as he clicks his way through them. _I just wanted to thank you for … As someone who’s been left … I’m offended that you seem to think the only reason I left my partner is because I wanted to find my true mate … I cried while reading this … A bitchy omega like you needs to be taught a lesson—all you need is a good, hard—_

Castiel startles backwards and almost tips out of his chair. A desk away, Uriel looks over at him and narrows his eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

“The interns didn’t do a very good job of screening the emails they forward to me,” Castiel says, a little dull. Uriel motions for him to turn the monitor so he can see, but Castiel shakes his head. Uriel mutters a curse under his breath and walks over to Castiel so he can read over his shoulder.

“Alphas,” Uriel mutters. Castiel looks up at him and isn’t surprised to see the hard lines of rage tightening Uriel’s face. “They think with their knots and expect everyone to bend over for them whenever they please.” He claps a heavy hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He’s a beta and doesn’t have a particularly strong scent, but even so Castiel can smell the anger, sharp and bitter, rolling off him. “Forward this to me,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Uriel—”

“Cas. Let me teach him a lesson.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at Uriel. “I don’t suppose I should ask what you’re planning on doing,” he says.

Uriel smiles. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he says. “Just send me the email.”

“Is this your way of saying thank you for your birthday?” Castiel asks. Uriel turned thirty-seven last month, and invited Castiel and a few others to drinks after work. An overbearing alpha had gotten in his space, saying he loved black cock, couldn’t wait to get Uriel on his back. Uriel was broad and strong, but he’d drunk his weight in tequila shots that night. It was Castiel who’d hauled the alpha away and smashed his fist into the alpha’s leering face.

Uriel raises his eyebrows. “This is my way of saying you’re my friend and I care about you,” he says icily. “Now. Send me the email. Please.”

Only a few other inappropriate or threatening emails got through the screening system in place. Castiel sends them along to Uriel as well, and has to hide a smile when he sees Uriel crack his knuckles and roll his neck as if preparing for a physical altercation.

Reading through the emails continues to go quickly. Castiel carefully flags the ones that catch his attention, setting them aside as possible interviewees. By five o’clock, he’s made his way through nearly 700 messages and marked thirteen of them for further thought. Seven of them are from people who passionately disagree with him; four of them are from people who have sent long personal accounts; and the last two are from individuals who can’t seem to make up their mind, but have intelligent things to say about the expectation of a true mate for everyone.

He enlists Anna’s help that evening, and over chocolate lava cake and glasses of champagne they make their way through another 600 emails, and set aside five. Anna laughs uproariously at some of the emails Castiel has been sent, but she refrains from reading snippets out loud after the first time, when Castiel threw a pillow at her and she spilled champagne all over her lap. It’s a good night, despite the snatches of vulgar and vaguely threatening language he catches as he flips through the emails. Anna doesn’t leave until after midnight, and he goes to bed warm with alcohol and good company.

 

* * *

 

The next day is Saturday, and Castiel ends up spending most of the weekend stretched out on his bed in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, Grace keeping him company namely by stretching out on his laptop while he attempts to read through the rest of the emails. By Sunday night, he has forty-three candidates. He narrows them down to twenty the next morning and sends them along to Naomi to get her final approval on which interviews he should pursue. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is, when he gets an email from Samandriel only a few hours later saying Naomi would like to see him in her office.

He takes the elevator up this time, realizing only as the elevator doors slide open to let him out onto Naomi’s floor that he never brushed his hair this morning and forgot to shave. He presses his palm on top of his head in an attempt to flatten his perpetual bedhead and then tries to finger-comb it into some semblance of order.

As soon as Samandriel sees him, he waves him into Naomi’s office. She’s reading something on her computer screen intently, brow furrowed, when Castiel steps into the room. She only looks up when the door clicks shut behind him. “Castiel,” she says, and although she doesn’t smile at him, her voice is warm. “Please. Sit.”

The chair is just as uncomfortable as it was on Friday. Castiel still doesn’t allow himself to fidget.

“I’ve read through the emails you sent me,” Naomi begins. “I was very interested by a few of your choices.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “I made a few unorthodox choices,” he says slowly. “But I felt they would provide the best opportunity for unique and comprehensive interviews.”

“I understand some of them perfectly. The letter from the alpha who left his partner for his true mate—an excellent choice. Controversial and promising. But this one …” She frowns at the computer screen. “From D. Winchester. He’s not writing about his own relationships.”

It takes Castiel only a moment to remember which letter belongs to Winchester. Winchester had spoken at length about his parents, a couple that were supposedly true mates but who had fought incessantly for years. _Guess that raises the question about whether it’s even worth it to look for your true mate_ , Winchester had written. _They loved each other, yeah, but they could hardly stand each other half the time. If that’s what being true mates is, then what’s the fucking point?_

“His was my favorite email, actually,” Castiel says. When Naomi raises her eyebrows at him, he stumbles over his words. “He—this is clearly something he’s spent a lot of time thinking about. He grew up with parents that were supposed to represent the idyllic marriage, but instead had a turbulent relationship. He represents an opinion that’s incredibly controversial—that true mates are, basically, meaningless. They’ve no more special a bond than any other happily mated pair. Focusing on that would be the perfect companion to the previous article.”

Naomi hums and steeples her fingers. “You’re going to get quite a bit of backlash if you publish an article that presents that theory in a positive light,” she says. She’s watching him with sharp eyes, so intense that Castiel can hardly breathe. “I know you’ve received some troubling emails,” she continues. “You’re going to receive many more if you decide to make this your focus.”

Castiel straightens, spine going rigid. Ice lodges in his throat. “Are you trying to frighten me?” he asks softly.

Naomi stares at him. Castiel refuses to break eye contact. “No,” she says finally. “I’m just warning you. If you decide to write an article dismantling the myth of true mates, you have to be prepared to deal with angry readers.”

“I’m not afraid,” Castiel says. His stomach tightens just for a moment.

Naomi holds his gaze for several more seconds, face impassive. When she finally breaks their eye contact to look at her computer screen, Castiel lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Naomi types rapidly for a minute, nails a staccato rhythm against the keyboard, before clicking her mouse decisively and looking back at him. “There,” she says. “I’ve sent my list of interviewees to you. It’s your job to reach out. I want regular updates and a transcript of your interviews as soon as you’ve conducted them.”

Castiel nods stiffly, one short jerk of his chin. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. She dismisses him with a flick of her hand.

The first thing Castiel does when he gets back to his desk is open his email, back held ramrod straight as he waits impatiently for it to load. He opens the newest email from Naomi and bites down on his lower lip.

The first name—the only name—on the list is D. Winchester. Castiel scrolls down, confused, wondering where the rest of the list is. Instead, he finds a short paragraph:

_Your article will be pushed back to the November issue so you have the time to find a new pool of interviewees. You need to find at least five true mate couples, a few sources like our Mr. Winchester here, and a few mated couples who are not true mates. You may want to pay particular attention to family dynamics and compatibility between the couple, as well as expectations they have coming into their relationship. I’m expecting good work from you. Keep me updated on your progress. –NE_

Castiel reads over the paragraph again. And then one more time.

“What are you panicking about over there?” Uriel grumbles, hunched over his computer and staring, unblinking, at the monitor. He’s been working on a piece on the sexual objectification of black male alphas for several days, and Castiel knows it’s been exhausting for him.

“I’m writing a piece about how true mates are bullshit,” he says, keeping it as simple and concise as he can. Uriel lifts his head to stare at him incredulously. Castiel isn’t sure what kind of face he’s making. He should be smiling, he’s pretty sure.

Uriel tilts his head back and barks out a laugh. “Oh, Castiel,” he says, shaking his head. “You _are_ a piece of work.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, a little uncertainly, and Uriel laughs again, and doesn’t stop laughing until Raphael pokes her head around the corner and hisses at him to shut up.

In the quiet aftermath, with the comforting, familiar sound of rapid-burst typing followed by frustrated sighs wrapping itself around Castiel, he pens his email to D. Winchester.

 

 

> From: cjmilton@voicemagazine.net  
>  To: dwinchester@winchesterrestorations.net  
>  Subject: Voice magazine interview
> 
> Mr. Winchester,
> 
> My name is Castiel Milton. You may recognize my name from a _Voice_ article which you recently emailed our magazine about, regarding how the expectation of a true mate for everyone has harmful repercussions for non-true mate couples, mated and unmated. I found your email to be remarkably well-written and eye-opening, and I would like to take it as a starting point for my next article, which will be about dismantling the stereotypical image of true mates as the perfect, idyllic American couple, and will likely be published in the November issue, a little under two months from now.
> 
> I would like to set up a time to interview you, at your leisure. You may remain anonymous if you wish. You will of course be compensated, at a rate which we will discuss should you accept. We can do an interview over the phone, via Skype, or in person if you are located within reasonable driving distance of the _Voice_ offices in San Francisco. My article will likely be running in the November issue. I would like to interview you particularly about the relationship your parents had with each other, but any personal anecdotes relating to your own relationships that are significant to the subject are more than welcome.
> 
> Please email me back soon with your answer. If you need more information, feel free to ask questions and establish guidelines for the interview.
> 
> Best,  
>  C. Milton
> 
> Castiel Milton | _Voice_ magazine  
>  Staff writer

 

Castiel doesn’t receive an email in response until after he makes dinner, going through the reluctant motions of boiling pasta and sautéing broccoli and onions to mix into the tomato sauce. He’s not hungry, but he eats his way through a plateful of his meal before he seals the rest in a Tupperware container, labels it with the date in dry-erase marker, and places it in the fridge. Then he seats himself in front of the TV and flicks through the channels until he finds a documentary about the Aztec Empire, which he watches mindlessly while refreshing his email every ten minutes or so. He knows he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t understand why he’s being so impatient about this. He’s a professional, and professionals do not agonize over whether or not an unimportant, off-the-street potential interviewee deigns to refuse his offer.

Grace settles herself on top of the television and lets her long, fluffy tail droop in front of the screen. She stares straight at him as if daring him to say anything.

Castiel checks his email at seven-thirty, and then seven-forty-three, and then forces himself to wait until eight-fifteen, and then gets up and forces himself to take a long shower. He touches himself, traces his fingers along his cock and reaches back to slip a digit inside himself, but after only a minute or so he decides he’s not particularly interested. He’s distracted.

When he gets out of the shower, he only does a cursory job of drying himself off and slipping into an oversized _Save the Bees_ t-shirt and boxers before he hurries to his laptop, impatiently waiting for it to load.

Inbox (3).

Right at the top: Dean Winchester, Subj. “Voice magazine interview”.

The email opens,

 

> Hi, Mr. Milton,
> 
> Um. Holy shit. Wow.

 

Castiel puts one hand into his face and laughs, overwhelmed for an instant by a feeling of relief and giddiness and, oddly enough, affection, for this vulgar man he hasn’t even met yet.

 

> Sorry, that was probably a really unprofessional way of saying “Yeah I’d really like to do your interview.” I’ve been a fan of Voice pretty much ever since I moved to California two years ago, and this was my first time ever writing in, so I’m kinda shocked, you know?
> 
> Anyway, yeah, I’d really like to do your interview. I’ve got a big project due by the 17th—I restore classic cars, and my customer really wants his Bel Air ready for a show this weekend—so the earliest I could do an interview would be September 18th. I live in Palo Alto, so I can drive into San Fran that afternoon any time after 2 and we can do an interview in person. I don’t like skype, and long phone calls kinda drive me up the wall.
> 
> Gotta admit, I’m really looking forward to this.
> 
> Dean Winchester
> 
> Dean Winchester | Winchester Restorations  
>  Manager and Head Mechanic  
>  808 San Antonio Ave, Palo Alto, CA 94306  
>  (650) 555-8073  
>  winchesterrestorations.net

 

The eighteenth—that’s Thursday. Castiel opens the calendar on his phone and squints down at the screen. He has an appointment with his obstetrician in the morning, a yearly checkup to renew his prescription for the heat suppressants that make his heats less painful to deal with without a partner. Other than that, his day is free.

He types a quick message back to Dean—he turns the name over in his mouth, pleased at the sound and feel of it—expressing that the timing works. He suggests a four o’clock meeting at a coffee house near the offices, and tells Dean he will be paid the standard interview rate for an hour of his time.

The reply comes almost instantaneously, less than five minutes after he sends the email. _Sounds awesome_ , Dean had written, _I’ll see you Thursday._

Castiel can’t help the small smile that tugs at his mouth. Before he forgets himself, he pens an email to Naomi letting her know that he’s secured an interview for Thursday. Then he shuts his laptop and sets it on his bedside table, and falls back onto his bed with a soft _oomph_. He stares up at his ceiling and rubs absently at his stomach, massaging the tight muscles there. It’s been a long time since he’s been nervous at the prospect of an interview. But this—it isn’t quite nervousness. There’s a sort of budding excitement, low in his belly, that floats upwards into his chest and leaves him warm.

His reaction is unusual, leaves Castiel feeling vaguely off-kilter, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. There’s a reason he had selected Dean’s letter; it had, more than most others he’d seen, revealed a deep reflection and distrust of the true mate mythology that echoes Castiel’s own. It’s no wonder he’s looking forward to meeting the man who’s so eloquently put to words many of Castiel’s own thoughts.

The door to his bedroom creaks slightly, followed by the soft pattering of paws. Grace leaps onto the bed and sniffs her way over to him, rubs her cheek against his stubble before starting to lick his jaw. Castiel absentmindedly reaches a hand up and strokes her head, running his thumb along the soft edges of her ears—first the gray one, then the white. “I have a good feeling about this one,” he says to the ceiling and to Grace. She bumps her forehead against his palm.

It’s far too early to go to bed, but Castiel is reluctant to get up, especially since he’s already dressed for sleep. He convinces himself to get up just long enough to brush his teeth and select a book to curl up with, one he began recently about the role of omegas in the movement against the Vietnam War. But he finds it difficult to concentrate, often coming back to himself to realize he doesn’t remember anything of the last few pages he’s read. He gives up by ten and turns out the lights, settling onto his side with Grace curled up behind the bend of his knees.

It’s too quiet in his room, and Castiel’s breathing and heartbeat are too loud. Unbidden, he thinks, _just a sad, lonely omega who feels worthless that he can’t find a mate._

Castiel presses his face into his pillow. He’s not sad, and he’s not lonely, and he doesn’t feel worthless. Why would he feel worthless for not having a mate when he’s never met anybody he’s wanted to be with? Castiel has never wanted a mate, never entertained the idea of having a mate. The idea that, after twenty-eight years of feeling no romantic or sexual interest in _anybody_ , he will meet somebody whom he could imagine having a relationship with is preposterous.

It’s just that sometimes he wishes he could build a home with someone. Sometimes he wishes he could do research for an article while the TV plays at a low volume in the background, a gentle hand carding through his hair before setting a cup of coffee before him. Sometimes he wishes he could press his face into the crook of somebody’s neck and breathe in deep and let himself be held. Sometimes he wishes he knew what it was like to fall asleep to the rhythm of someone else’s heartbeat.

Only sometimes, though. It comes in waves. He’ll go months without thinking about it, and then for a week he’ll wonder, and pine for the shadow of somebody he’s ever met, and then he will wake up the week after and wonder why the hell he’d been so overdramatic the week before. The feeling always visits more frequently in the weeks before his heats, and part of Castiel takes satisfaction in knowing that it’s just his biology, his body urging him to find a mate while he’s still of child-bearing age, rather than a weakness of his emotional state borne out of loneliness. Sometimes, though, he hates his biology for haunting him with fantasies of a connection he doubts he’ll ever find. _Just a sad, lonely omega who feels—_

Castiel heaves in a shuddering breath. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cas meets Dean. It doesn't go well.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I've spent the last week recovering from the flu (in September!! What the hell!!) and that kinda put a damper on things. That said, thank you for your patience, and here's part two. It's looking like there will be 3-4 more parts, each about this length, so this fic should end up around 35-42K. Ish?
> 
> Thank you all so, SO much for your kind words. I want to make a quick note on reviews: generally speaking, I don't respond to reviews (blame social anxiety, and also AO3 for not having a private reply function - that is literally the only way in which Fanfiction.net is superior to AO3) but please, please know that each and every review has made me so, so, so, so, SO happy. I am so grateful to each and every one of you. I'll try to get to any reviews that have questions, but I'm also very busy this semester with my thesis and capstone project, so please be patient with me.
> 
> If you want to talk to me, come visit me at osirisjones.tumblr.com!
> 
> Chapter warnings: some brief sexual harassment; very minor self-harming behavior (Cas knocks his head against the wall purposefully); masturbation, including fantasies of rimming; some self-loathing and shame; and probably some typos. I'll come back and fix them.

Castiel’s bad mood follows him through the rest of the week, a nagging sensation in his gut of _not enough not enough not enough_ his constant companion. At work, Uriel notices and spends all of Tuesday pushing him persistently to open up, but Castiel can’t think of what to say. 

 _I am nearing thirty and I am alone, and I am okay with that, except for the fact that everybody else is_ not _okay with it, and I can’t help but feel like a lesser person because I don’t have a mate, because I have never wanted a mate except when my own damned biology betrays me, and sometimes I feel like there is something broken in me,_ he could say. Or, _I’m scared of the backlash_ , because part of him _is_ scared, part of him is expecting letters that dig deep into the very core of his being, scared of the words people will sling, the way they will dismiss his opinions because, _Ah, well, just another lonely, bitter omega who feels worthless because—_

Uriel is his friend, but he is also his coworker, and Castiel doesn’t want Naomi to know about the anxiety that’s festering in his stomach, so he says nothing. Just smiles tightly and keeps telling Uriel, “I’m focusing on the article. That’s all.”

Balthazar is more difficult to dissuade, mostly because he, unlike Uriel, doesn’t understand when to give up. Though his desk is on the other side of the floor, he circles back to Castiel at the most random moments, causing Castiel more than once to upend his coffee over his desk. It’s only when Raphael steps up, shutting Balthazar down with a cold tirade about a _proper working environment_ that Balthazar finally ends up slinking away, shooting a glare back at Castiel and mouthing, “This isn’t over,” complete with a jabbed finger in Castiel’s direction.

(When Castiel tries to thank Raphael, she just gives him an utterly bewildered look and says, “What in the hell for? Get back to work. And stop drinking so much damn coffee. All your fidgeting is distracting.”)

Tuesday crawls sluggishly into Wednesday, a slow tumble of minutes into hours, and then it is, all of a sudden, Thursday morning, and Castiel is waking up to his alarm at seven sharp with his heart throbbing in his throat. He spends too long in bed and then forces himself to take a hurried, hot shower, wondering what it would be like to have someone pull the curtains aside, step in behind him, place gentle hands on his hips—nuzzle his neck, press their cheek to the crown of his head—press a kiss there, along his hairline, soft and sweet, then turn him around with the lightest touch, mouth opening under his—

Castiel shuts off the water with a violent twist of his wrist. He rubs himself down so roughly his skin feels sensitive and raw afterwards. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. Even during his occasional periods of missing the opportunity for a partner, usually in the weeks preceding his heat, he’s never felt this— _pathetic_. He feels as though he’s pining, but it’s sharper, more personal, than the shallow ache of wondering about romance. He’s pining for some _one_ , not an idea.

Thoroughly sick of himself, Castiel bangs around in the kitchen and takes vicious joy in cracking two eggs and beating them mercilessly. Halfway through eating, he wonders what it’d be like to make breakfast with someone, _for_ someone, to have someone make breakfast for _him_ , and he gets up and scrapes the rest of his eggs into the trash. He tells himself he’s not hungry. He tells himself he is fine as he is.

 

* * *

 

His mood doesn’t improve in the hours between breakfast and his interview appointment with Dean Winchester. A mix-up at his obstetrician’s clinic leaves him waiting for almost an hour before Dr. Tran is able to see him, and a baby spends the entire time wailing despite its mother’s best attempts to calm it. Then, once he’s finally ushered into her office, Dr. Tran spends fifteen minutes trying to convince him to stop taking his heat suppressants, expressing her worry that after such a long time on the medication—almost a decade—his natural heats will be affected. He barely restrains himself from snapping at her, but isn’t able to keep the ice out of his voice when he tells her that he does not have a partner, he does not want a partner, and he quite frankly does not care whether or not extended use of his favored heat suppressants would trigger an early menopause. Dr. Tran looks at him a long time after that, mouth pursed, but after the typical round of tests she signs the new script without complaint.

By the time he gets to work his already-bad mood has condensed into a simmering frustration that leaves him itching to fling barbed, poisonous words at whoever so much as looks at him the wrong way. He bites his tongue, calling upon a lifetime of being told to _know his place_ , and hides away in an empty conference room where he can hunch over his laptop and continue his work.

The solitude of the conference room helps, but as his frustration drains away Castiel finds himself sagging, blankness gathering like a storm behind his eyes as he stares at his computer and tries to will himself to keep reading. Emptiness yawns inside him, reaches up into his throat, and Castiel feels—he feels like—

— _a sad, lonely omega, worthless because he can’t find a mate_ —

Castiel closes his eyes and very firmly thinks, _No_. He is not sad, he is not lonely, he is not worthless. He is complete. He is not nothing.

Castiel heaves out a long sigh and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s forgotten to shave again, and his five-o-clock shadow is thickening into a scruff that can almost be called a beard. It scratches at his palm as his hand runs along his jaw. It isn’t like him to go so long without shaving. He doesn’t like the itch, the way it prickles at the sensitive skin of his mouth when it grows in. Part of him, he knows, has never gotten over the expectation of omegas to be clean-shaven, smooth and dainty and feminine. His beard grows in quick, thicker than any omega is supposed to have.

He scrapes at his jaw again, feels the bristles between his fingernails, then drops his hands back to his keyboard. His eyes wander to his watch, and his shoulders lock up.

3:47. His appointment with Dean is at four. He’d aimed to leave no later than half-past three.

“Shit,” he says, and then, again, “ _Shit_ ,” and he is scrambling to his feet, closing his laptop, gathering his coffee and his suit jacket and his phone and his notepad from where they’ve been scattered over the last few hours. He didn’t realize he’s been sitting here for so long—stuck in his own head, unsettled by the sharp heat of annoyance that had cooled into a thick loneliness that settled about him like a constricting embrace.

He shoves his things into his messenger bag, shrugs on his coat, shouts to Uriel that he’s heading out for an interview. Uriel raises one hand in a silent farewell, but Castiel hardly notices it, all but sprinting for the elevator. He catches it just as it’s starting to close, and slams his finger repeatedly on the lobby button.

 _Damnit_ , he’s thinking, over and over again. He checks his watch. Just after 3:50. The coffee shop is just a few stops away on the metro, but this time of day any form of public transportation seems to operate five to ten minutes late.

Sure enough, he reaches the metro station only to see a sign announcing the next train is still six minutes away, and it’s—he checks—3:56. _Unprofessional_ , he reprimands himself. Unprofessional and lazy and scatter-brained and inexcusable. If Naomi knew—and Mr. Winchester, waiting for him; he’d been so excited in their email, _Gotta admit, I’m really looking forward to this_ —and Castiel didn’t have the forethought to set an alarm to remind himself to leave on time like a goddamned _professional_.

Castiel heaves a deep breath and pushes his hair back, twists it between his fingers helplessly. There’s nothing to be done, other than to offer a sincere apology to Mr. Winchester and offer to buy him a cup of coffee and a confection to make up for his lateness. Not the end of the world, he reminds himself.

The metro seems to take forever to arrive, and then finally Castiel is in the overheated compartment, sweating a little in his dress shirt and overcoat. He stays standing despite the empty seats, thinking (and knowing it’s ridiculous) that if he stands he will somehow get to the café faster.

The metro deposits him a block north of the café. Castiel sweeps towards with long strides, trying not to look like he’s running. It’s almost 4:10, and he is a professional, and professionals aren’t late, but when they are they do not run, they walk, and that is why he’s walking-not-running even though every inch of him is practically vibrating with the effort of not breaking into a jog, because Mr. Winchester is waiting, and this is his job, and he can’t even get to a damn interview on time, let alone have a proper relationship or be anything more than the _lonely, bitter, worthless_ omega playing pretend at activism.

Unbidden, Castiel’s steps slow as a scent like sun-warmed leather and polished chrome tickles at his throat. Without realizing, he tilts his head back, parts his lips so he can breathe in its warmth. He’s passing a long black car, something classic by the looks of it, with graceful streamlined curves and a polish to its coat that speaks of a proud owner. He spots an air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and he raises his eyebrows—whatever the brand, it’s strong enough for him to smell several feet beyond the windows, cracked open an inch in the warmth of the September sun. He takes another breath, holds it in the back of his throat, and then realizes with a twinge of embarrassment that he’s slowed to a dawdle. He shakes his head, mutters, “Ridiculous,” and lengthens his stride again. It’s 4:11 when he steps into the café, the sudden cold of the air-conditioning a welcome shock to his overheated skin. The scent of coffee beans and fresh-baked goods hangs heavy in the air.

Castiel stands by the door for a moment, looking over the café. There are a few groups of high school-aged people sitting around tables, homework open on the tables before them, and an older couple sharing a tart, and there, in the back, sitting alone, a broad-shouldered man in a reddish leather jacket with his back to the door, profile just visible as he stares at the clock over the counter.

Sighing in relief—that Winchester hadn’t left, that there is only one person sitting alone, that he is (almost) positive it _is_ Winchester—Castiel picks his way to the back of the café. “Mr. Winchester?” he calls when he’s a few feet away, already extending his hand. Back here the scent of coffee isn’t quite so strong, is permeated with the gentler smell of worn leather and the woods after rain.

The man in the leather jacket starts, turns to face Castiel as he stands. “Yeah, that’s me,” he says, voice rough but warm. “You’re Mr. Milton? Cas—Castiel Milton?” He extends his hand in turn, and he’s smiling, green eyes and freckles and a pink mouth, smiling, smiling for Castiel. The tips of their fingers touch, and something in Castiel shakes, and Castiel is saying, “It’s nice to meet—” and then their thumbs slide past each other as their hands meet fully, there is something like static electricity racing from the tips of Castiel’s fingers to the marrow of his bones, and something deep inside Castiel grinds to a halt.

Dean Winchester’s smile is fading. His eyes are widening.

Castiel’s mouth is open. He’s breathing, he thinks. Warm leather and polished chrome and the woods after it rains, fresh and new and alive. The scent settles within him like it’s coming home.

Their hands are still touching. Dean’s hands are broad and warm and calloused, rough skin on the tip of his fingers and the arcs of his palms, and his thumb rests against Castiel’s like it belongs there, like their hands are meant to hold each other. One of Dean’s fingertips grazes lightly against the inside of Castiel’s wrist, a touch so quietly intimate that a shiver runs from his wrist to his shoulders, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

His wide eyes are so green. The flecks of brown and gold remind Castiel of a sun-dappled meadow, and that scent is still in his nose, his mouth, filling him up so it is all he breathes, warm leather and polished chrome and the woods after it rains—

Dean sucks in a breath. His lips part with intention. And Castiel—

“No,” he says, tongue numb and fumbling, voice cracking. He pulls away, rips his hand from Dean’s, and his hand is so cold, the inside of his wrist prickles with loss, and he is stumbling backwards, almost falling over his own feet. Heat is building up in his gut, low and throbbing, and this isn’t happening. This _isn’t happening_. “No,” he says again, a little hysterical, and then, “No, no, this isn’t happening.”

Dean reels backwards, pulling his hand away as if burned, and then he’s blinking, gaping, and then he says, “Wait—wait, hang on—”

And Castiel says, “ _No_ ,” and he bumps into the table behind him, catches the hard crest of his hip bone on the chair as he turns away.

Behind him, he hears Dean say, “Wait, Castiel—” and then the heavy slide of a chair over the flooring, a startled curse. But Castiel isn’t looking, won’t let himself look, because his heart is pounding in his ears and his thoughts are a cycle of half-finished thoughts, of _how could this_ and _why is this_ and _what is happening_ and _no no no no_ , because he doesn’t want this, he has never wanted this—

He shoulders his way through the two people just entering the café, manages a gruff apology, and then he is out of the shop and gasping in the late summer heat, almost dizzy with the scent clinging to his nostrils, the sparks he can still feel in his fingertips, racing up his spine, his ribs, setting his heart at a galloping pace. And—he squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming short and fast—he’s getting slick, and his eyes are burning because this _isn’t happening_ , this can’t be happening—

“Castiel!” he hears behind him, a panicked plea, and he takes off—not running, because he refuses to give in to the panic bearing down hard on his heels, but a quick walk, almost a trot, trying to ignore the pressure building in his gut, the heat rising in his stomach, hyperaware of the weight of his cock and the ache deep inside him, begging him to turn back, to claim and be claimed.

“ _Please_ , Castiel, just—will you wait just a goddamn _minute_?” Dean bursts out, and there is a hand on his shoulder, hot and heavy and Castiel wants it—he wants it _so badly_ —and he all but flings the hand off him as he turns, anger rising beneath the panic.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he spits, and Dean, eyes wide, pale beneath his freckles, puts his hands up, takes several steps back. His chest is heaving. There’s a splatter of coffee clinging to his Henley, molding to the shape of his chest. Castiel’s eyes catch the drop of sweat sliding along the tendon of his throat, and he thinks of shoving Dean against the wall of the building, sealing his mouth over that tender area, tasting the salt of his skin, thinks of Dean’s hands on his waist, hoisting him up, thinks—

“Sorry,” Dean is rasping. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— _fuck_. Are you—are you okay?” He’s trembling as if it’s taking every ounce of his self-control to stay back, a little hunched, hands still up—as non-threatening a position as possible, Castiel notes, the mark of a good mate, and Castiel rounds on his own thoughts, forces them into submission.

“Am I okay?” he echoes. “Am I—no, I’m not fucking okay, I—”

He cuts himself off, chews on his words. His teeth ache. His body aches. He wants _so badly_. “I need you not to touch me,” he says again. “I’m not—we’re not. We’re not doing— _this_.” He gestures at Dean sharply, at where he can see his cock swelling in his jeans—and, Christ, he wants, he wants Dean’s hands on him, he wants him between his legs, pushing inside of him until they’re joined, until Dean’s knot is locked tight inside of him and he is coming with his alpha and his alpha’s teeth are buried in his neck and—

“Yeah,” Dean is saying. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.” He backs up another few steps, visibly takes a few deep breaths through his mouth, not his nose. He lowers one hand to pinch his nostrils closed. “Sorry,” he says, voice nasally, because Castiel must be looking at him oddly. “You just— _fuck_ , you smell—you smell amazing. Like honey and storm clouds and—”

He cuts himself off. A blush has crept up his neck, settled into the crests of his cheekbones.

Castiel looks at him. Dean looks back.

“I need to go,” Castiel says unsteadily. “I—I need to get home.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again, nodding vigorously. “Yeah, you need to get home before it gets worse. You shouldn’t be out here like that, it’s not—”

“It’s not _what_?” Castiel asks, sharper than he intended. “It’s not safe? To be out in public?”

“Of course it’s not safe,” Dean says, just as sharp, pulling his hand from his face, “Goddamnit, look at you—you’re already fucking _leaking_ , any alpha would be able to smell it on you from across the street—do you have a ride? Did you drive here?”

Castiel’s cheeks burn crimson. He _knows_ he’s wet, can feel his boxers already getting damp, but to hear Dean speak so candidly of it, as if he has the _right_ …. “I took the metro,” he says. “And I’ll be _fine_ taking the metro back,” except he’s not so sure, because he’s taken the metro on the days preceding his heat and he remembers how uncomfortable it is, alphas standing too close, scenting him deeply. Remembers the panic that had joined with the heat in his gut, the fear.

“Let me drive you home,” Dean says, almost pleads, and Castiel can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts out of his chest.

“I’m not getting into a car alone with an alpha I _just met_ ,” he snaps, and Dean snaps back, “I’m not just any alpha, I’m your—” and then he goes white.

“No, finish your sentence,” Castiel says, cold and flat. His heart is thundering. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Dean swallows audibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. Even now, a part of Castiel is begging him to lick it, bury his nose in Dean’s neck where his scent is the strongest.

“We’re true mates,” Dean finishes, voice halting. “You—you feel it, too.” He looks almost pathetic, green eyes wide, expression unsure.

“Right,” Castiel says after a moment. “Because _‘true mates’_ means so much, doesn’t it?” And then, cruelly, “Just ask your parents. Could barely stand each other half the time, isn’t that what you said?”

The pink flush is back, deepening to red, and that’s anger in Dean’s brow, squaring his shoulders. “I didn’t,” he starts, and then he cuts himself off, jaw working. “I’m in the same boat as you,” he finally says. “This—it’s not—I’m not gonna do anything, okay? Let me at least call you a service. The Safe Rides place. _Something_.”

“My phone works just fine.” Castiel digs it out of his pocket, holds it up to show Dean, a sarcastic punctuation. He knows he’s being an ass, knows Dean is just trying to help, but his entire body is telling him to go to Dean’s side, tear his clothes off so they can fuck right there in the street like uncivilized beasts, and if he doesn’t hold onto his anger he doesn’t know what he’ll do. The ache in his groin is getting worse. He breathes deep and takes a couple of steps backwards. He and Dean are nearly ten feet away from each other. He feels impossibly far away, the empty space between them a void that stretches wide open. He’s too far. It’s not enough.

Dean’s eyes are so green.

Somebody shoulders past Castiel, sending him stumbling forward several feet as he tries to catch his balance. Dean is stepping towards him, arms up, eyes round with worry, and the person who pushed past him is snapping, “Christ, don’t stand in the middle of the sidewalk, dumbass.” And then the man—the alpha—is stopping, nostrils flaring, pupils dilating. He turns back towards Castiel, and there is hunger in his parted mouth, the tongue snaking out to wet his lips.

Castiel takes an unsteady step backwards. The alpha’s scent, sharp and bitter, wafts towards him, nothing like the warm invitation of Dean’s leather-and-sun scent. The alpha takes a step forward; Castiel takes another step back.

“What’re you doing out in the streets, smelling like that?” the alpha murmurs, pushing forwards, and Castiel is stepping back but not quickly enough to escape the powerful hand that latches on his bicep and holds him still. “You smell so desperate, baby—you need a knot, don’t you? I’m right here—”

“You get the _fuck_ away from him,” Dean snaps, hand on the alpha’s shoulder, turning him away from Castiel, and Castiel is staring past the back of the alpha’s blond head, taking in the fury lining every curve of Dean’s face, the snarl on his lips, the flash of his canines, the red flush creeping over his cheeks. The alpha growls wordlessly, shoves at Dean one-handed—he’s still holding onto Castiel, holding him still, and Castiel can feel his heart pounding beneath his heavy grasp.

“Mind your own goddamn business,” the alpha is hissing, and Dean is stepping closer, teeth bared, and the roiling scent of alpha anger and posturing is making Castiel dizzy, locking his muscles in an instinctual urge to hide, to curl into himself and allow his alpha to protect him. He stares, ears roaring, unable to make out Dean’s words, only seeing the shape of his mouth as he says something that makes the alpha’s grip on Castiel’s arm tighten. He can’t move.

But then, very clearly, Castiel thinks, _I am whole without him_ , and the blush of _rightness_ settling over him at being protected is swept away by an icy resolve that tightens his gut and rises like bile.

Almost without thinking, Castiel wraps his fingers around the alpha’s wrist, and he twists until the alpha goes down, elbow turning inwards as his body folds under the pressure of Castiel’s hand on his wrist. He’s gasping, almost on his knees. Castiel stands over him, the alpha’s heartbeat thundering beneath the pads of his fingers, and he is slick and hot and needs Dean’s cock so fucking badly he can hardly think, but still his voice is steady when he says, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The alpha gapes up at him, but Castiel’s eyes are caught instead by the expression on Dean’s face, a flicker of shock before his mouth twitches upwards into a small smile. Castiel’s ribs ache with the warmth of it.

“Let go of me, you crazy bitch,” the alpha hisses, and Castiel squeezes tight, digs his fingernails into the fragile skin of the inside of his wrist, before he lets go, pushing forward so that the alpha stumbles back.

“Get out of my sight,” Castiel says. The alpha glowers, cradling his wrist to his chest. Anna had taught him that move—his wrist will be bruised, maybe sprained. It’s the twist, Anna had said. The careful application of pressure forcing the wrist to bend in a way it shouldn’t.

“Keep a leash on your psycho omega,” the alpha spits at Dean as he pushes past, and the smile on Dean’s face broadens into a grin.

“Oh, he ain’t mine, sweetheart,” Dean says, sharp beneath the honey-sweetness coating his words. “Now do what he said and scram.” The smile turns sharp, toothy. Dean is tall, Castiel notices for the first time, standing broad-shouldered with his bowed legs spread in a powerful stance. A protective wall between Castiel and the humiliated fury of the alpha. They stand and glower at one another for several long seconds, and then Dean rumbles, deep inside his chest, and the alpha backs down, turns to leave at a hurried trot. As he goes, he casts a resentful glare over his shoulder. Castiel watches Dean watching him go. Then Dean turns back, and his eyes are so green, and Castiel is lost.

“You alright?” Dean asks, voice soft.

“I can take care of myself,” Castiel spits.

Dean barks out a laugh, so genuine that Castiel startles. “Yeah, you can,” he says, almost smiling, “but that’s not what I asked.”

 “I—” Castiel starts, pauses. The simmering low in his belly begs for attention. “I need to get home,” he finally says unsteadily. “I’ll—I’ll call a cab.”

“Can I, um.” Dean hesitates. “Can I stay? Until your ride comes?” Castiel, flipping open his phone to call, freezes. “I know you can take care of yourself, okay, I know,” Dean rushes on. “I just need—I _need_ , okay, I need to make sure you get home safe.” He takes a step forward, eyes so soft. Castiel takes an unintended breath, catches Dean’s scent— _sun-warmed leather, polished chrome, the woods after rain_ —and his knees go weak.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Castiel says as steadily as he can. Dean’s brow furrows in confusion only for a moment before he catches on, mouth parting in a silent _oh_. Castiel gestures sharply at Dean, trying not to let his eyes stray below his belt to where he knows Dean’s cock is swollen in his jeans. “You’re going into rut,” he says bluntly, “and, like you said, I’m—well.” He clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Dean says after a long moment. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, that’s—that’s fine.” He hovers for a moment, hands dangling loosely at his sides. He looks at Castiel, and Castiel looks at him, and he wants to trace the curve of Dean’s neck with his tongue, he wants to taste Dean’s mouth, he wants—

“Here,” Dean is saying. He’s shrugging out of his red jacket, grimacing a little as his coffee-soaked shirt shifts against his skin. He holds the jacket out to Castiel. “If you want it,” he says. “The scent should help keep interested alphas away, if they think you’re, um. Spoken for.”

 _Don’t take it_ , Castiel is hissing at himself, _don’t you dare take it_ , even as he reaches out for it, carefully avoiding Dean’s fingers. “Thank you,” he says, because it’s logical, isn’t it? An alpha’s scent overlaid over his will dissuade anyone who realizes he’s in heat. After all—nobody infringes upon another alpha’s property.

He bites back his pride and drapes the jacket over his shoulders. He can’t help but breathe deep, letting Dean’s scent settle in his nostrils, his throat, his belly, curl between his ribs. _This is a terrible idea_ , he thinks, because he’s getting wetter, shifting uneasily as his core throbs between his legs, the scent driving him to dizziness. Across from him, Dean’s pupils are blown, breath coming in short pants.

“You should go,” Castiel forces himself to say.

Dean nods as if in a daze. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll—I’m gonna. Go. I’m gonna go.” He jerks his thumb behind him, gesturing vaguely. He doesn’t move.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and he wants to hit himself for the way his voice shakes when he says, “ _please_.”

Dean backs up a few steps, eyes fixated on Castiel’s. “I’ll talk to you later?” he asks.

“ _Go_ ,” Castiel says, and Dean nods, a sharp jerk of his chin. His lips purse like he’s holding words back, and then he raises one hand in farewell and turns to leave. He looks over his shoulder once, twice, then again. Then he rounds the corner, and is gone. 

Castiel realizes he was holding his breath, and he lets it out in one long stream. He’s holding his cellphone so tightly his knuckles are white. He breathes in deep, and the jacket is sun-warmed leather and polished chrome and the woods after it rains, and he whimpers deep in his throat, closes his eyes against the rush of heat through his veins. 

He takes another minute to compose himself, and then he dials the number for Omega Safe Rides.

 

* * *

 

 Castiel is drenched in sweat and slick, underwear soaked through, by the time he makes it back to his apartment. The ride was almost unbearable, half an hour of concerned silence with a waifish beta woman behind the wheel who had tentatively offered an emergency shot of suppressants before Castiel refused, hardly able to speak around his gritted teeth. He’d almost forgotten his address, almost drunk on need and Dean’s scent.

He’s panting as he unlocks the door, fumbling with his keys, almost dropping them, before he manages to shove his way inside. Dean’s scent, clinging to him, mingles with the scent of his home, comfort and protection and the herbal candles he sometimes likes to light. He can feel the moan bubbling up in his throat, his nerves sparking with arousal more powerful than he can remember ever dealing with. He can barely think beyond _I need—I need—I need_ , boiling at a feverish pitch along with a furious sense of betrayal, _how dare he make me feel like this_ , _how dare my body make me do this_.

Castiel groans, a guttural sound ripped out of his chest, and falls back against the door. Without realizing it, he’s begun palming at himself, beautiful pressure against his aching cock that has him almost sobbing with how much he _needs_. He scrabbles with one hand to lock the door as his other hand shakily unbuttons and unzips his pants, shoves inside, and he lets out a small cry as he wraps his hand around himself, palm hot and slippery with sweat against the weight of his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whimpers, hardly able to do more than pull roughly at himself, thumb over his leaking slit, his entire world narrowed down to the heat between his legs, the ache deep inside that begs to be filled, an emptiness so vast it consumes him.

He finally manages to slide the deadbolt home, and he holds on for a second longer, sure that if he lets go he’ll drift away into the fevered need of his own body. He forces his hand to stop moving in his boxers but is unable to convince himself to pull his hand free. Instead he cups his cock and tries to breathe through the need, harsh, gasping breaths that echo in his ears.

“Fuck,” he says again, more frustration than want, and then, louder, “ _Fuck_ ,” because he can’t believe, he can’t fucking believe—

 _Stop it, stop it, stop it_ , he thinks, _stop it_ , and he knocks his head backwards two, three times, hard enough to knock some goddamn sense into him. He forces himself to breathe through his mouth, a count of five in, hold for three, a count of five out, pause. This is no different than any other heat, he tells himself.

(Except, oh, _fuck_ , it is, he’s burning alive, and he has never, not once, felt like this, never felt so helpless, so dependent on his biology, not even his first heat, which was more pain than pleasure with how badly he _needed_.)

Castiel breathes, lets it out, breathes. “Okay,” he says in a voice he hardly recognizes, rough and distant. “I’m fine.” And he is fine—it’s just a heat. He knows how to handle a heat. First: water.

He finally manages to pull his hand away from his groin, unable to suppress a small whimper from spilling out from between his lips at his loss. He pushes himself away from the door and totters on unsteady legs toward the kitchen, hyperaware of the slick feeling of his cheeks rubbing together, the way the soaked material of his boxers are clinging to the curve of his ass. He wants, he needs, he thinks of those broad hands spreading him open and three fingers pushing into him, filling him up, thick and steady and oh _God_ so good so good he can hardly stand it—

Castiel’s knees buckle but he catches himself on his counter before he falls, breathing heavily. “Stop,” he whispers, “stop, stop,” even as he can feel the new pulse of slick spilling out of him, dripping down the insides of his thighs. He doesn’t want to think about _him_ , he doesn’t want to think of the way those broad shoulders would look with his legs draped over them as Dean pressed his mouth against his core, tongue coaxing him open—

He reaches behind himself blindly, pushes his thumb into the damp patch at the back of his slacks, pushes until he can feel the pressure at his entrance, the texture of his wet boxers teasing at him. He sucks in a ragged breath, tries not to feel betrayed when his hips buck backwards, desperate for the pressure to increase, to be filled.

Castiel grits his teeth and pulls his hand away, unbends his spine. He forces himself to move towards the cabinets, where he pulls out as many water bottles as he can find. He fills the first from the sink, biting his lip hard to distract himself from the need boiling within him, and slurps it down so fast he almost chokes. He fills it again and drinks it more slowly, heaving slow breathes in between measured gulps, and then fills it a third time. He fills all the water bottles he can, places two in the refrigerator and two more in the freezer, and clutches the last few to his chest as he makes his way to his bedroom.

Grace is curled up on his bed but when he staggers and has to lean against the doorframe to keep himself standing as a wave of arousal rises up within him until he’s drunk on it, she notices him. She looks up and yawns, then folds her ears back against her skull in distaste. “I know, I know,” Castiel pants. He pushes himself off from the frame and manages to make it to the bed, where Grace leaps off and darts around him to make a beeline for the door. Castiel can’t quite bring himself to go back the ten feet and close the door to give himself some semblance of privacy—his eyes are fixed on the lowest drawer of his bedside table, thinking about the toys inside, the fake knot he almost imagines he can feel, spreading him wide open as it’s pushed inside.

Castiel drops the water wattles on the bedside table, shrugs Dean’s jacket off as he jerks the lowest drawer open. He’s uncoordinated as he pulls out the shoebox with his toys, and he doesn’t care that he drops the box and remaining toys on the floor once he gets his hands on the fake knot. He’s breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, and he needs it inside him, needs to be filled up, he _needs_ —he needs Dean, Christ, he _needs_ —

Castiel struggles with his belt, his zipper pushes his pants down to his ankles before he realizes that his shoes are still on. He curses and collapses backwards onto the bedspread as he tries to toe them off, teeth gritted because he doesn’t have _time_ for this. He pushes his pants and boxers down the curve of his ass, gathering at the hinge of his knees, and then he gives in and reaches behind himself, reaching with two fingers and—oh— _fuck_ —

He almost sobs when two fingers slip in easy as a warm summer day, so wet there’s hardly any resistance. Two fingers filling him up, scissoring, twisting as best he can from this angle, but it’s not enough, he needs to be fucked wide open, and he pulls his hand free just long enough so that he can unfurl a third finger, shove it deep inside himself until his knuckles are brushing against his entrance and he’s whining, high and pitiful.

He flushes with shame when he realizes he’s three fingers deep in himself, pants tangled around his knees, coat and shirt still on, because he can’t keep himself together long enough to get out of his clothes. He fights with his pants, growls when he realizes he needs to pull his hand free so that he can finally kick them off. His slick hand slips on his buttons as he pulls first his overcoat, then his shirt off, dropping them over the edge of the bed before reaching for the dildo. As he shifts, his hip digs into something sharp and he hisses in pain, tilting his hips—gasping at the clench of muscles—so he can pull Dean’s jacket out from underneath him. He stares at it, propped up on his elbows with the dildo in one loose fist and the jacket in the other, and he takes in the shine along the sleeve where his slick has smeared across the leather. His breath catches in his throat. And then—

His nose is buried in the lapel of the jacket before he can think about it, inhaling deep, Dean’s warm scent mixing with the sweetness of his own slick, and he’s moaning, cock jerking with a spurt of precum, entrance tightening around a fresh wave of slick, because—Christ—he can smell Dean’s own arousal on the jacket, something thick and heavy. He pants open-mouthed against the smooth leather, cheek sticking slightly where his slick has started to dry. He can’t bring himself to let go.

He’s shaky with his left hand as he brings the dildo to his ass, slides it along the slick cavern between his cheeks. He bears down, pushes until his cheeks part and the head is nudging against his entrance. His breath catches in his throat. He finds himself biting down on the jacket without meaning to, little nips like it’s Dean’s skin. The dildo’s head slips against his entrance and he curses, tries to level it out so he can sink it in deep. It slips again and he almost cries out in frustration. He pushes his face into the jacket, breathes in deep, brings his left hand around so he can switch hands. His right hand is wet, slippery, but he has more control this way, and he spreads his legs, nudges the head of the dildo past his balls, pressure against his entrance, a sharp gasp, and he’s being spread open, oh, so wide, pleasure bordering on the edge of pain. He hasn’t prepped enough, he knows that, but even so he’s so wet that the dildo slides home until the knot is pressed up against his ass, only a slight drag of discomfort where the dildo widens.

He takes a shuddering breath, breathes in Dean’s scent. Forces himself to wait—just a few moments, just until his body accepts the dildo—and then he starts to move. Slowly at first, a thick, steady slide out, the wonderful drag against his channel, and then one quick thrust back in all the way up to where the fake knot begins to swell. He clutches Dean’s jacket tight in his left hand, pants with his eyes squeezed shut. Another long, slow drag out, a quicker slide back in. Heat between his legs, spreading up through his belly, his chest, air so thick with the scent of his own arousal he can hardly breathe through it.

His hand speeds up, a steady pump spreading him wide, opening him up for the taking, and he can almost imagine—Dean holding his legs open, thick fingers squeezing at his thighs, his hips, as Dean works, flush along his chest and shoulders, cock so fucking good inside Castiel that he’s nearly crying, and— _oh_ —he does cry out when the head of the dildo brushes against his prostate, a shock of white-hot heat that makes his toes curl. He chases that spark, angling the dildo until he manages to hit his prostate again, a longer drag this time, stomach tightening, the fake knot pushing at his entrance, insistent, insistent, but he’s not ready, he needs—he needs to—

The dildo catches on his prostate a third time, then a forth, and Castiel is whining into Dean’s jacket, wordless, gasping between thrusts. He’s so close, he’s _so close he’s soclose so close so close_ and he reaches down between his legs with his free hand, strokes himself once, cups his balls, reaches further until his fingers reach the pool of slick gathering between his legs, feels his entrance stretched wide by the dildo, and he catches his prostate a fourth time, knot catching on his rim, and he keens, gasps, “Dean, _Dean, Dean_ ,” hips jerking as liquid heat spirals up from his core and colors spark behind his closed eyelids. He comes with a silent cry.

Minutes or maybe hours later, he blinks his eyes open and realizes he has his teeth buried in Dean’s jacket, tongue thick with saliva. He pulls himself away, groaning when the dildo shifts inside him, knot slipping the final inch past his rim. A thin line of saliva connects his lips to Dean’s jacket. The entire shoulder and lapel are dotted with teeth marks where Castiel couldn’t control himself.

He sucks in a shaky breath, lets his head fall back onto his pillow. His heart is still hammering in his jugular, but the heat in his belly has died down to a low simmer, manageable. He reaches blindly for the bedside table, gropes for his water bottle. He guzzles it, eyes closing at the blessed coolness easing down his throat. When he’s finished, he lays it aside and stares at the ceiling, feeling numb.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He _doesn’t know what to do_.

It takes almost more effort than he’s capable of, but he twists onto his side, hissing at the feeling of the knot moving inside him, and reaches into his overcoat, pulls out his phone. He stares at for a long minute, then enters a number and presses it to his ear. He settles onto his back as it rings, aware of his own come drying tacky on his thighs and the wet spot his own slick has left behind, but unable to deal with it. He can’t resist turning his head into Dean’s jacket and inhaling deep.

The phone clicks. “Anna,” he says, voice hoarse. “I don’t know what to do. I need you to tell me what to do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Cas is freaking out, but he's a goddamn professional and he has an interview to do. Also: he and Dean make some compromises and reach an understanding.


End file.
